East St. Louis
Sorrow is not done for the Black man.
Here it comes, pouring down like
The bones of death rattle in
the blazes of history and now.
Sorrow has no margins or
It hangs like it did before -
from the social ligature of
other men who know not how
to be humane and non-warring
anymore now than they did when
the houses burned and the dead
lined the streets.
But, Companions, mankind must
learn or better yet be instructed
in belief by the world as a reverent
The desire must be ignited in the human
not that which cruelty breeds.
The spirits of the dead know this as
more even does the Spirit of God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem